Meet Your Maker
by Aurora-Borealis Coyote
Summary: Seven sinners, seven sins. Each homunculus encounters a human who lives by their sin...but who are sinners, who are the sinful ones, and who had no other choice in being what they are? This is only the beginning of what they must ask themselves.
1. Gluttony

**AN: So this fic will be seven chapters of somewhat related oneshots, one for each sin/homunculi. A non-homunculi character will have an encounter with the "sin" they practice…so first up is Ed and Gluttony. Because he does show tendencies of gluttony…XP **

**Warnings: None for this chapter. But I think the rating might go up later, and later chapters will be probably viewed as more…disturbing/graphic/whatever other word you'd use.**

**And yes, this chapter takes place when Ed is younger.**

**Thank you for reading! **

Edward could almost taste the future with every swallow. That is to say, every time the morsels made their way into his stomach, he could practically see his brother eating in front of him.

And it wasn't as if the visions lasted very long. If he was going to make a joke out of it, he was usually left hungry for more. But he didn't always want to make a joke out of it, even if the only other option was to talk about it seriously. It was definitely expected of him now to be serious, though. For him and his brother and his studies so that one day all the problems would be all gone. Speaking about that made him feel sick and bloated at times. He was eleven years old. He knew he had a lot to do, but he also distantly realized he was a child who normally would not have been living the way he was living. Which was his goal, and he would just have to live with the way things were.

Ed crammed a piece of thick, tough bread into his mouth. The type to fill him up and keep him strong. Al looked across the table, the mouth opening on the armor parting just slightly as if imagining the real bread inside him.

As he ate, he imagined being trouble free and having all the food in the world. He imagined not having to stop eating due to some sort of obstacle or danger or military job. The food felt like a sun inside his stomach. He was very hungry, and that was probably good, since the food kept him strong, didn't it? And if he wasn't strong he couldn't get his body back, let alone Al's.

He ate for Al.

"How does it taste?" he asked Ed tentatively and quietly, bowing his creaking armor head.

"Huh…oh," Ed replied. He had been too distracted by the chewy feel of the warm mouthfuls of bread to realize he had been asked a question at first. "It tastes like…hm, okay, Al. Pretend we're back home. The way it used to be. There's wooden tables and chairs and on the table there's a wicker basket of this bread and…uh, Mom just made it and it's soft like a….like a cloud. And warm, like the cloud is in the sky during the summer and you put it in your mouth and it's…it's like eating the clouds and the sun."

Al didn't answer unless you could count him sighing so softly it was barely possible to hear.

The rest of the slice of bread was consumed, and Ed slid his hand over his mouth, bringing in leftover crumbs. The train jolted as it came to a halt to let on people from the train stop.

From across the aisle, Ed could see what seemed like a pair of eyes. He laughed fluidly as he saw people running to catch the train, swallowing the last of the bread that had been left behind on his teeth. But there were still more pieces. There was still more.

From down the aisle, slow and heavy footsteps sounded on the thick floor as a large man boarded the train, making his seat across the aisle from the two brothers.

The man grinned in what could almost be described as an empty way, wide with unfeeling eyes not looking at anything in particular. His small, round nose crinkled in slightly as he inhaled and his great chest rose, and he turned his head to look at Ed and Al, or rather, the table with the bread. His grin grew wider, and Ed got the feeling as if he somehow knew the man.

The man set his blank, intense gaze on Ed and it seemed for a moment that his eyes held no expression, but they were blazing too voraciously to be blank. And he moved his jaws as if to begin eating, but instead he spoke.

"Hi," the man said happily, but something about his tone unsettled Ed. Maybe it was manic sounding or a bit too childlike or he was talking like he knew Ed or like he knew something. Something that was on the tip of Ed's tongue but he wasn't quite sure what.

"Al, go ask the conductor or someone what time the train is scheduled to get to our stop," Ed levelly asked his brother as he examined the man, or rather, as the man examined him. Or maybe examined was the wring word- too delicate and detailed. The man was sizing Ed up, or at least coming close to it.

Al took the hint and left. After he was gone, Ed and the man were all alone in the train car. The train's wheels ground against the tracks, and the man's stomach growled.

"Uh…hello, mister," Ed said, knowing to expect some sort of occurrence, but not knowing much else. It seemed there was a lot to take in that he did not know about. He reached for another piece of bread, and before he knew it, his teeth had shredded half of it into bits, and it was sliding down his throat. He was getting to be a little full. Being full always made him feel warmer. It was always good eating when full, it made him feel like he was gaining strengths of some sort, but mainly it just felt good.

The man sniffed visibly, his nostrils seemed almost to cave in, and he asked "can I have some to eat?" It was almost as if he had been waiting for the man to say that, waiting like the man was probably waiting to tear off another piece of hot bread, tear it off with his teeth, feel the spongy warmth, chew it like he could make something if he just ate a bit more-

For a moment there, Ed had distracted himself. Frowning inwardly, he handed the man a slice of bread. He was tired and he decided to get rid of the feeling by eating some more. It made him feel stronger in a way, more energized, and it couldn't hurt, could it? The feeling on the inside of his mouth felt like home, after all, and he wasn't harming anyone.

The man took the slice of bread, and stared at it momentarily as if inspecting a contender or looking at something he had just cooked himself. Then he took it and it looked deceptively small in his large, soft hands, and shoved the bread into his mouth.

Ed could hear the chewing, could hear the muffled sound of teeth grating against each other softened by the clumps of food cushioned against sections of his mouth. He could see the bump of swallowed food appear and disappear in the man's throat, practically felt it himself, and he didn't think he'd mind having more-

Ed caught himself reaching for more bread as his hand hit the basket and realized what he was thinking. He was so…indulgent, so uncontrolled, but yet he felt like pushing away the guilt. There was something telling him _it isn't good to eat so quickly _and _get a hold on yourself_ but he didn't want to listen to that. He hesitated for a second before his fingers dove into the loaf and brought a piece to his lips.

The man smiled at Ed when he saw, and licked some crumbs off his face. There was some sort of a mark on his thick, sausage-like tongue. "Thanks!" the man said, eyes blaring with some sort of look that suggested he was satisfied but more food would have been all the more satisfying.

Ed caught himself wrapped up in consuming thoughts yet again, and he could feel his mouth start to water. But it tasted so good, and once he started, it wasn't like stopping could make any miracles…

Before his subconscious lost the nerve to make him take another piece, Ed grabbed more and tore off thirds until it was all gulped down, and he inhaled air scented like food and hunger for more food before asking the man "hey mister, what's your name?"

The man laughed, high pitched and almost frantic sounding, and stuck out his tongue. The mark on it, the tattoo, Ed thought about how it must have hurt to have a tattoo on his tongue!- showed, covered in thick saliva, but it was still visible and a rich, succulent red. He didn't answer Ed's question, and all he said was "that was good bread."

Ed wanted at that moment to run away. But all he really felt like doing, all he did was eat more bread as if it was all he could do, as if it could satisfy every one of his wants and needs, and if he has a little bit more-

He had distracted himself again. How long had it been? Where was Al? How much had been eaten? He looked up and saw the train had stopped. 

The man lumbered his way off his seat and grinned at Edward. "Goodbye!" he said, and walked off quickly and on heavy feet.

Ed looked around, looked at the empty basket, empty except for some soft crumbs. Little, left-behind ovals. He looked around once more and saw that he was alone and took his automail hand, scooped the crumbs up, and crashed his tongue down, licking the metal clean and swallowing the crumbs almost whole.

Alphonse came back a few seconds later, saying "sorry! I got lost!" and telling the correct times as the train took off again, and noticed the empty basket. "You must have been hungry…"

Ed felt the warmth in him, but still some of the emptiness he tried to ignore. He looked out of the train window and among the people at the train platform, he could have sworn he saw a man, bold and large and wearing black, wave at him, and mouthing something he couldn't quite make out, or something he didn't want to see.

He tried to forget it all after he resumed his conversation with his brother, and the next time he ate a few hours later, he told himself he was trying to help his brother. He was eating for his brother and taking in too much was bad…

But he felt like the man's tongue had crawled to take the place of his own, and ate when he did, or even worse, like the man's tongue was his own. He stopped eating and told himself he didn't need any more for the time being, ignored his hunger, sucked his teeth free of leftover food, thinking of anything but what he wanted to think about, until he told his brother he was going to sleep.

He dreamed of eating bread with Al and then being eaten by a mouth with diamond-hard, milk colored teeth and a marked tongue like a sausage.


	2. Greed

**Now it's Greed and Cornello…that selfish greedy man who brainwashes his entire city to follow him, make him more powerful than anyone else. XD He's quite greedy, isn't he? And you never see any fics about him, though. Well here's one XD**

**Warnings: This chapter… morally unstable ground on Cornello's part. Yay for cults. If you are easily upset by that sort of thing, you were warned.**

**Pairings: None, unless you want to see the tension between Greed and Cornello in that way…XD**

**And, next up is Lust.**

**Enjoy…or face the judgment of Leto. And Greed in his Ultimate Shield form. Just kidding. XD**

**Thanks for reading ^_^**

The gem-like light of the sun danced over the massive stained glass windows. In a way, it almost is like even the sun cannot penetrate the church. In a way, Cornello saw that as a sort of success in a funny way. Even though he realized that the sun's tricks of light meant nothing in the grand scheme of it all. The sun could be bright enough to burn the windows and he would still be the Father of Liore, and Leto would still approve of it all from his palace of rays.

Somehow, there was something ceremonial about the sight. Something about the sliding brightness of color made him think of the thousands of candles placed before the main staircase of the church, candles held by the desperate and the hopeful and the lost, and most of all, in the generously and unrelentingly faithful. The ones who entrusted their souls, their loyalty, their faith, their wealth, their love to him. And he didn't think twice about taking it. Why should he? After all, it was his job. And not only that, his religious duty. If he could not help Leto's children serve Him, he could not help Leto, am I right? Yes.

It all worked out so well, really. Yes, turned out well for the people, and for Cornello- well, one could say it was as if he had planned it for himself. Just by speaking a few words of inspiration to the people, it was as if he could become a god himself. Which he didn't think was too bad. In fact, he thought it was good.

If he could be seen as a god among men, then he could very well become a god among men. And that would be satisfactory, but it was something he expected- If not him, then who else? It was almost his job to take the opportunity, really. He was helping himself, and he was doing the entire city a big favor by doing so. And, of course, serving Leto.

In truth, Cornello thought he deserved as much for what he did. And he knew nobody would disagree. That was how he liked it. So who could argue? But there was always more out there, always more opportunities. One who has the power of a god, a god among men, would and should not have had limits, of course. Earthly limits, or spiritual limits, would just have to be nonexistent for him.

Things were to his liking. They were so nice that they could even get better. And that could do no harm to him. It was unsure, really, what would happen to the people but they would most likely carry on no matter what happened if Cornello's abilities grew greater. And in the grand scheme of things, that would make people happy. Contented people, Cornello knew from dealing with people praying and confessing almost everything possible for all this time, were one of the many types of people who did not try to revolt. And the many types of people Cornello was familiar with loved his power. Because they loved him. And because, above all, they loved Leto.

That was what they repeated every time they confessed to him. Their sins were all theirs, but they gifted, almost, the sins to him. Almost selflessly. Cornello loved those confessions. They gave their love, their trust. One could say it was admirable. Cornello knew it made him more powerful. And he knew the people didn't think of it that way. Their simplicity was so nice and convenient at times.

The room of confessions-more of a chamber- was small and had an opening in the wall for confessors to speak into. The opening was big enough so about half a person's face could be shown, but only half.

It was the middle of the day, hot and arid, but Cornello liked the heat. In the chamber it was fine; after all, he made sure the conditions were good. He had to be in the right mindset to listen to such sins all day.

The traffic of confession was slow that day- only an old man had came, an old man who had fought in some war in Xing decades back talking about his friend's death, which he thought was his fault. Cornello thought that if he was to fight in a war, the last thing he would do was fret about the welfare of the dead and gone. There was nothing the man could have done, he thought half-listening. The man was a hopeless fool but forgiven.

But then he heard a low, slow voice drawl "is the Father Cornello here?" from nearby. Probably at the doorway of the mural-swept hallway.

"You're calling for me," he replied, directing his voice out of the opening into the hall filled with illuminating gold candelabras and a jeweled painting of Leto, and a ceiling clothed with images of the sun.

He heard the footsteps get louder and closer, and the feet of the chair outside the door screech against the gold floor as the visitor's body moved it. "You're taking confessions now, _Father_?"

Which of course was a strange question. Everyone in Liore knew when it would happen, and where he would be. Maybe this young man had left the city for a long time. Strange, Cornello thought, it seemed that nobody ever really left. Which, of course, was a good thing. He didn't like when his citizens went astray. After all, if they did, could he have the power to give them Leto's message? No. And, after all, if he couldn't do that, what would happen?

"Yes, my son of Leto, what sins have you come to confess of?" Through the hole Cornello could see a pair of tinted sunglasses with silver frames-real silver frames.

The man's fingers on his right hand lifted up and adjusted the expensive glasses, tilting them so he showed Cornello his purple eyes. There was no barrier between the man's face and Cornello. He did not know whether or not to look at this newcomer.

He decided if said newcomer was to be in his church, Cornello would not give into whatever games he was trying to play. He knew it had to be something.

"To tell you the truth, Cornello, I didn't come here to confess any of my sins to you, although I've got a lot under my belt." From what Cornello could see of the man's face, his eyes had the look of someone who was smiling. Suspicious, but expected. He didn't like it, but knew he wouldn't.

He had known from when the man first opened his mouth something was off.

"I expected as much, _son._ I have never seen you in my church anyway." Cornello noticed one of the man's eyebrows move up. _I'm more observant than you want, I see._ "I see so many faces every day, and it may seem like I would lose track of them all, but I know a new face when I see it. Are you looking to join my quest, join me for the benefit of good Leto?"

"Still no, Cornello. I have no interest in your ridiculous pet moneymaker. It doesn't even bring in all the grandeur it commands, and I have no patience for lies," the man says disinterestedly. Blaspheming in Cornello's church, something that would go unforgiven by him, Cornello thought.

No, the Leto church which he had come up with really didn't give all he desired, but close to it, and if he learned more alchemy, he must have been able to surpass his wants. The more children his people gave the population of _Leto's land,_ the more followers he could have, the more benefits for him, which would lead to benefits for Leto. And a benefit for Leto was a benefit for Cornello. He would have his fill one day.

"Then why," Cornello said quietly but with all the power of the sun, "are you here?"

"Cor_nello_," said the man as if he knew something Cornello didn't. "Look, I already told you I don't do lying, so what I'll tell you is if you really pay attention you'll know, okay?" The hand moved to take off the glasses entirely, and hooked them onto his vest.

"Don't you cause illusions!" Cornello almost roared, looking directly out of the opening and making perfect eye contact with the man's still, almost still as an unloving being's eyes. The eyes almost unsettled him, but he wasn't sure why.

"Hey, now, I'm not!" the man defended. "I'm just telling you, some things I can let you know and some things I just can't afford to. And some things, Cornello, you can figure out if and when you understand them."

"What _kinds _of things?" Cornello paused before replying. Who was this man? What did he want, why had he come, what was he coming to tell him? Cornello went through possibilities, but none made sense. Strange-everything usually made sense to him.

"You wouldn't want to know some of them if I told you," the man grinned and dipped himself back into silence.

"Is that a warning?" Cornello asked, equally amused and enraged at the man, who wasn't giving what he wanted or needed, although he wasn't quite sure what those things were.

"No. Guys like us, the ones who have to have it all at any cost, we don't take well to warnings." Cornello thought he definitely had to get to the bottom of the situation.

"I know what sort I am," Cornello started, "But who are you?" He questioned slowly and forcefully, his preaching voice. The one that made everyone listen, that made everyone his as long as it was the right time. He could make this man his for the time being.

"Okay. I can't truly tell you, but what I can give you is-" he leaned in, so that his mouth was captured in the middle of the opening, smiling thin and wide enough to reveal rows of pointed teeth. "Well, you could say I helped you make this kingdom of yours." The man waited for a reply silently, it was obvious he thought he had said something clever.

Cornello unlatched the great topaz and ruby-encrusted door of confessions, and pushed it open. Whoever this man was, he'd explain.

When the door was open, he saw a stylishly dressed young man, grinning like he expected the door to be opened by Cornello. The man reached out his hand for Cornello to shake, but was ignored, and put his hand in the pocket of his tight pants.

He put his other hand on the door, ran it over the jewels, almost grabbing them. "This is _nice_," he remarked. "You get it from work?" And his smiled, wide and knowing and sinister.

Cornello stared at the man touching the door, noticing how his hand seemed to be getting to know the exquisite jewels, almost clamping his fist around them. Then he stared at the red mark, the red tattoo on his hand, red as the glittering rubies.

He had seen that before- the Lust woman's chest, the Gluttony man's tongue-

"Impossible," he said to himself.

""Impossible?" the man echoed. "Just ask _good and holy Leto, Father_, who teaches that reality isn't only what mere earth-dwellers think and know. Impossibility, Cornello, is impossible."

Cornello grimaced in realization, almost amused. But not really. "You must be-"

The man cut him off. "You know. One day, you'll even understand, maybe." And he walked down the beautiful, lavish hallway, almost coveting the beauty, but not quite.

Cornello went home that day early.


	3. Lust

**And now it's Lust and Kimblee. This was one of the more tricky pairs I came across, the other hard one was Sloth but we'll get to that later X) Anyway, I had a hard time thinking of someone really lustfully Lustful. I thought of Roy but he is more of a ladies' man, and then Havoc, but really, he's just trying to find luck with women XD So I thought that the "sin" of Lust is about getting drawn into your own universe by your desires, and letting them completely take over you until they are all you crave and it's a total obsession and everything around you can literally or figuratively be wasteland and you would be too busy in your pretty world …and really, Kimblee has so much bloodlust and lust for pleasure of the senses/flesh that he completely loses control over himself (I sound really creepy…XD)**

**Warnings: Violence, some gore, some disturbing imagery, some kind-of sexuality, Lust kind of dying. And then the moral dilemma of "I'm killing people AND OH HOW IT FEELS SO GOOD." **

**Pairings: Again, none unless you want to see the tension in that way. XP**

**Next is WRATH.**

**Thank you for reading : )**

Kimblee thought that the world could really be such a beautiful place when it was taken apart, like it was made to be that way. Some things were not made to be in all one piece, were they?

And he had seen her, silhouetted in the dull color of flickering lights; sometimes the setting sun reflected, shining black off of her hair, and sometimes at night, her looming body like a living shadow. Her face never showed but he had a feeling, a feeling within him, and he knew she must have been watching him, even following him. From the way she was turned, angled against the breaking hills, and how she was always at a distance, but close enough to watch him. But he would let it all draw out if it was possible. Things were always more pleasurable when they were drawn out as long as they could be.

Like when he would see fires, slowly and richly dance for him, and he'd open his mouth so the smoke would enter and press down on his tongue. The full livid cries rippled through him, coursed through his body, almost calling him, like they needed him, like he needed them. They said he was insane, but he knew every time he made remains of a human crash to the ground he didn't need to be if he could have that electric feeling of smoke explode through his hands and up through his arms and into him everywhere until he was shaken right to his core, shaken as the ground, or maybe the ground wasn't moving and it was just him, but he didn't care because it was the most beautiful sensation anyone could ever have. During those moments, he could almost say he knew love.

And that night, he saw her again, but closer that time. Not close enough to touch-not that he would have minded-, not close enough to turn to blackened rubble with his hands, but closer than before. He could just begin to see her facial features, like a tease, like the moments before a village cracked from the foundation out and became entirely engulfed in fire, flames jumping mischievously around the ground, only going as high as they seemed to want to. It appeared that she knew her face was almost displayed, and it stirred him like when he placed his hands to blood-caked ground, ready for everything and anything but not knowing what that would be.

He saw her move closer and closer; he was half paying attention to her movements and half paying attention to the symphony all around and all on him.

She looked up, her head rising slowly. A fire from a distant sand dune illuminated her for a moment, and a corner of her mouth rose, baring sharp teeth, and her eyes were deafeningly brilliant with livid stillness.

She didn't seem like an ordinary woman, really. He didn't quite consider himself an ordinary man either. This one, this woman, seemed to him like a different classification. Something inside her knew.

Two could play at that game, he thought, but whether or not he was playing her game only you can guess.

And his hands were upon each other, familiar and lulling like the feel of gore-stained sand underneath the rough paws of a hunting jackal, and his smile mirrored hers, all sharp teeth glinting with the light of explosions, and clenched in ecstasy. His was less controlled than then hers as the feeling, that anticipated, indescribable, otherworldly feeling took him into its grasp, shook him faster and faster until he could barely think, and as the ground cracked and billowed out jaggedly, he could have sworn he saw the woman dodge away from it, escape somehow, but it looked like she had been caught in there. But his eyes must have been playing tricks on him, they always did when times got like this, there was just so much to take in and so much that could take him in it got so beautifully distorted.

He let it all dance around him for a few minutes, and his shoulders were shuddering, crashing up and down with rough and shallow breaths like only heaven could give, the feeling had taken over him and he would let it take him anywhere it could because really, nothing else mattered.

He could still see her smile somewhere in the leftover smoke, but when it almost all cleared, he saw something lustrous and black, come out, nobody would have noticed at first, but of course, there was nobody else around anyway, no other soldiers or State Alchemists, and everyone else must have been dead by then.

"I'd tell you how rude that was," she said, "but I suppose it was a little fun." Her ominous beauty seemed to twist around the world, her dress covered in rubble, her smile all-knowing and imposing. She stretched her hand, it seemed for a moment that it had grown and made the sound of daggers clanking together, of metal buildings falling, but then her knuckles sounded softly, cracking bones.

He found himself not being able to look away from her as he replied "tact was never one of my strong points or main priorities," still panting in frenzied pleasure.

Her eyes were like an exploding star trapped behind glass, and he found himself wondering if that sort of explosion was a good idea to deal with. But if it wasn't, that was all the better. He always liked danger.

He wanted to see her be eaten by an explosion, rise out of the flames like regal, choking smoke, and the snake on her tattoo to come to life and twist in the ruin, and her gloved fingertips to pin him to the ground as the feeling, the symphony of destruction, would crescendo, and her hair flying in the desert's gust of winds and fading into the black sky, the black sky illuminated by the moon and lights of his handiwork.

She smiled a knowing wolf's smile, smelling prey. An icy, sharp, acidic feeling washed over him like a wave slamming him against the shore of an ocean of screams, and he started to say something, but she silenced him with her words-

"Human," she said, and walked forward as if she was more, taking one of his hands in her own sand-dusted glove, tracing a finger over his alchemical tattoo, grinding it into his palms, almost as if it was a spear, as if she was trying to find something or maybe just impale him.

She was the inferno around them that couldn't be stopped by anything, not even itself, and would eat everything in its path, or maybe that was him. He wanted to maybe, be the fire, seduce the sky with edges of flames, he had already started the explosion, and he couldn't control the aftermath.

She carefully asked him, gripping his hand, "how does it feel?" and her eyes were wide.

And the question seemed to be like a cold, bare spear edged hand reaching inside of him and shaking him, and he wasn't sure if she meant if she wanted to know how it felt to him to be human or what it felt like to have the tattoo or what it felt like to create symphonies of anguish and pain and love, or something else entirely, but he had a feeling.

"Like touching you." She smiled, like she had expected the answer to be like that, but she looked somewhat disappointed. Like she hadn't expected to be happy with the answer. Her mouth opened on one side, incisors glinting like bones. "What…who are you?"

She dropped his hand, and swiftly straightened her glove, one eye looking at the moon. "What do you feel when you do it, what do you feel in you and around you? The thing that drives you and the thing that makes you place your hands to the earth like it were built to break?" She almost yelled. Her voice questioned bitterly, as if she knew the answer. As someone screamed hollowly in the distance, he shuddered, taking her words in. He didn't quite understand.

"The answer was right in front of you," she calmly said, with what seemed to be a cross between angrily and sadly and knowingly, no surprise in her voice, before he could say anything, before he could think, she left. She went walking away, towards the village's edge, where there was fire on the bank of the small river, telling all the wrong answers to the water, where what he wanted could have him.

The world was all rot and beauty that night, and I would be lying if I told you that the only one left standing knew or cared where one began and the other ended. A hail of rubble and remains pelted itself on him, all over him, like gloved fingertips asking for an answer he couldn't quite find, but as the ground shook deeper and the shrieks grew more beautiful, he could almost see a pair of eyes like exploding stars before what he wanted had him.


	4. Wrath

**Now it is Martel and Wrath. Martel, she's regular and in good spirits with Alphonse and Edward, but when she's hellbent on revenge….SHE IS HELLBENT ON REVENGE! Almost nothing stops her! I sure wouldn't mess with her... And wouldn't you be hellbent on revenge, Martel-style, if you were captured and experimented on for years, turning your life to shards and you would never really be able to live normally again…and then when you manage to get out, your friends are killed before you and you can't do anything about it…the "sin" of Wrath is not only about you, it's about those around you. You can only store so much wrath before it gets out. It's you wanting to destroy, no matter what. **

**I'm probably missing the point, but I find it depressing that Martel never got revenge…**

**Warnings: Profanity, imagined violence, disturbing but vague flashbacks, imagined gore.**

**Pairings: I suppose you could see some of the lines as Martel/other Devil's Nest chimeras. **

**Wrath from the first anime, yes…I am planning on using one of the manga-verse Homunculi. I actually think Wrath from the manga does a better job of being Wrath, but anime-Wrath I thought would be interesting for this.**

**Next is SLOTH.**

**Thanks for the reads, reviews and love!**

The world was full of simple concepts. Life, death, humans, animals. The military for example, had soldiers, wearing uniforms, signing up and receiving orders and carrying them out or disobeying them or getting medals or dying or getting executed or deserting or vanishing to where only other military men knew. But that was another concept. All concepts, however, had an other side.

Human and animal. One dominant in the world, the other more populous but not the dominant. One dangerous by craft and nature, the other by instinct and necessity. But Martel thought there was more to it than that. After all, what else could she think? She was human

_-WASN'T SHE?-_

, wasn't she? No, only at first glance. Was she animal, then? No. More to it than that.

After all, she had been brought to the conclusion that there couldn't be too much of a difference between humans and animals. Humans, after all, only really wanted to kill, live survive, fuck, keep their own in power, keep their own power, get their own simple pleasures, keep going, take their enemies down until there is nobody left to hoarsely beg for mercy? And so did animals. Or was it the other way around?

Martel had given up on hoping for herself. But that didn't mean she had given up on it all. Not at all.

There were two sides to every situation, every object and being and emotion. The more different things were, she thought, the more they were ,deep down, similar.

The powerful ones would do everything in power to satisfy their gains.

And that only meant

_-I'LL DO EVERYTHING YOU COULD NEVER IMAGINE, JUST YOU WAIT-_

so would she.

It might have made her a criminal, but she already was anyway, and really, so were they. It was needed. She couldn't do more damage then they already had, could she? And if she could, then maybe that would be for the better. What she had planned wouldn't take long, not at all

_-NOT FOURTEEN YEARS-_

and it wouldn't take much, no special locked chambers, no chemicals that would make it impossible to breathe when injected into the spaces they opened up to put in what she assumed was DNA then sewed back up, no barren and mountainously large buildings, no rusting chains, no vials or large books of research. None of that at all.

No, none of that, just her and her knife and her mind and her memories and her enemy and don't forget the snake inside of her guiding her. Which one was her opposite, she didn't quite know. Maybe both the snake and her enemy. Those military men and alchemists from the lab, they wouldn't stop at anything

_-THEY DID EVERYTHING YOU COULD NEVER IMAGINE-_

to continue what they started, no matter what "anything" meant. They didn't even have a real stopping point. Just continued until something happened, more and more of their experimenting until something or someone gave in, whichever side.

And in a way, she knew she was, to a point, like that. Keep picturing the moment when the world would fade away into blank background and white noise, and she'd take her blade, sharpened to a familiar fanglike curve

_-I'LL KILL YOU!_

_REMEMBER ME?_

_THIS IS WHAT YOU MADE!_

_YOU MADE ME!-_

and as it almost all went white, she'd go in for the kill, her and her snake, maybe buy new shoes because they were damaged by the guilty blood of the ones she knew too well, or maybe the job would be swift and clean and over in a flash, and then she'd live on. Maybe she'd be able to rest, and maybe she wouldn't, but either way she'd have done what she set out to do, and that was what was important.

Maybe it was human instinct that guided her. Maybe animal. Maybe both, since after all, she was both, or you could say she was neither, or something different. But whichever way, she knew her instincts had been made. Partially by others. But crafted by her.

She could kill. Sometimes she thought she could just kill until the snake was full, until she ran out of people who had all but killed her, until every person and thing and word and sensation faded into white nothingness.

Then maybe she'd rest.

She was outside, resting against a building near the Devil's Nest. She was new enough there to only have good memories of the place. After you stayed in the same place long enough, it got bad.

The leather-sheathed blade bumped against her shoulder as she walked quicker, adjusting pace. She couldn't help imagining it unsheathed, in front of enraged, defeated eyes that would soon be unmoving.

They would_ –WATCH-_ her, _-PLEAD-_ with her, watch as _–SHE-_ would take their life and make them _–KNOW-_ why she was doing it. She wouldn't flinch as her changed arm stretched, went in for the kill. She'd get them, she knew she had to. One day, any day, even that day would be good.

The outside walls were cool on her skin; she leaned up against one, waiting for anything to happen. Maybe she'd see one of the men who took her friends from her or someone who made her "the first snake chimera". Maybe one who locked her in a cell. Maybe one who organized the whole thing…

Footsteps. At that hour, it wouldn't be just anyone. She placed her hand to the knife. Just in case. You never know, after all, what's waiting for you after you've had the unimaginable come for you. Even when you can guess well.

Her head turned. Nobody but a little boy with baggy clothes and long, tangled hair. A little kid, all by himself at who-knows-o'clock, in the middle of one of the most underworld-like areas of the city. He looked to be clean, except for his hair. He was too clean to be a street kid. Something was up.

"Hey kid, shouldn't you be at home in bed?" she asked him, edged in almost sisterly concern. The child twisted his feet around in the concrete ground, answered "they know where I am!"

She paused, squinting and examining him. "You sure?" his hair reached almost to his waist, and covered part of his face.

He looked up at her, glared, and repeated "they know where I am!" not quite angrily, and not quite like a carefree child. Not an insult, but not a friendly answer.

She definitely wasn't in the mood to fight with some kid who had no business being out at that time, in a place like _that,_ if that's what the kid was trying for. What she wanted to know was what he wanted from her, if he didn't need help or a roof or food.

"Anyway, lady, what are you doing here?" asked the curious child he most definitely had to be, but he sounded like he was mad at her, or like he knew the answer. Which was crazy. But there were stranger things, as she knew. After all, you never know if you're wrong or not if you can't prove it.

But this kid was more than he let on, and she didn't think she was wrong in thinking that.. Her instincts, whichever "her" they belonged to, were telling her. And they told her to be careful, but she wasn't sure why. Instincts can't do everything. She gripped her knife.

"I live near here," she said "I'm only taking a walk, clearing my head. Long day," she said, remembering the first day she was in that city, recently escaping the laboratory. To hell she had gone. You know what they say-to hell and back again.

What would the child think if he found out? What if the government had sent him? No, she was letting her imagination get the best of her. Some things could happen, but were too ridiculous to happen. Back to thinking about recently escaping, she brought herself to a state of partial comfort, and she unconsciously rubbed the covered blade's tip with her finger, knowing one day she'd have to clean it off.

The kid began jumping up and down. Crazy kid, she thought, smiling. "Why, did someone do something to you?" he asked her. He didn't seem like he was too curious about why she was out, but what had been done to her. Crazy kid.

"Long story."

"Are you going to do anything back?" he asked, stopping the jumping and got down to sit on his knees. His words were slowly drawn out and vicious. She knew there had to be something more to him then met the eye. There always was, but what?

She thought , "WHY am I telling this?" as she said, "I'll do everything," closed her eyes tightly. But she paused when she heard a small noise of rustling fabric.

The boy stood up. "I know you will!" He smiled, baring his teeth, and gleefully ran away, and she could have sworn she saw a small, familiar mark on his foot.

"Hey, kid!" she called, wanting to ask who

_-AND what-_

he was, but she could figure it out. She had figured a good deal out on her own. Whichever one of her selves it was, she told herself not to go after him. That little mark was there, she knew. It was simple- he wasn't how he looked. But neither was she. That was where the simplicity stopped. But one thing was truly simple-he was right. She'd do everything , it was just like he knew. She might think of him as inspiration when she got her revenge, but really, she knew when she did she'd probably not think of anything at all, except what was there-far from simple, yet concrete. Like that kid. And like her.

If they would harm her, then they should have known she could harm in return. She didn't need instincts to tell her what was right in front of her, what would fade away, what was possible or impossible or right or wrong, simple or complex, or opposite or similar, or both.


	5. Sloth

**And now for Hohenheim and Sloth. I told you it was a weird choice…but when you think about it, nobody in FMA is truly lazy, and Hohenheim is relatively slothful- he leaves his family without turning back and thinks it's the only thing he can do, but that's kind of taking the easy way out. I mean, in the anime which I suppose we're going by because this is anime-Sloth (Aquasloth!), he leaves because he doesn't want his family to see his rotting flesh…he could have at least tried to explain something. XP Sloth from the anime represents a sort of different kind of sloth, and I think Hohenheim is slothful in sort of the same way she is.**

**Ooh, just realized that Slotherz is my current avatar. **

**Pairings: HohenheimxTrisha I guess, and somewhat HohenheimxSloth.**

**Warnings: Talk of Hoheheim's rotting flesh XP**

**I had this idea, since crack and horror are my favorite genres, that each subject character in this fic should cosplay their corresponding Homunculus! It was awesomely disturbing…the only thing in this world more disturbing than Hoho wearing Sloth's clothing is….CORNELLO IN GREED'S CLOTHES. D:**

**Next is ENVY. **

Hohenheim, just like anyone who was ever in a difficult spot and just _had_ to make a hard decision, had his reasons for the quickly made choice. And when one thought about it, it was all for the better. They would carry on. They could carry on. Really, Trisha and the children, without him, they could thrive like they never could have before, have what they never could have with him. What would happen with him around?

Exactly. You don't really know, I don't really know, and most importantly of all, Van Hohenheim did not know exactly what would happen if he stayed with his family, but he knew that if anything happened, which it would, like it would have to, not that he could do anything about it, it would be bad.

It was too dangerous to take the risk. Not only that, but there were some things regular people, a regular family, wouldn't want and wouldn't need in their life.

He was doing them a favor. They were better off without him.

The way he did it, he'd be there one minute, and the next minute, it would be like he had never existed. He knew he'd have to do something one day or another.

He just _had_ to be who he was or he just _had_ to have fallen in love and had a family. But he needed to, and then he needed to do something.

They didn't need him. They didn't need someone who would be there one minute like a thick gray could spreading over the sky, and the next minute would wash away into the ground and be gone forever like leftover rainwater, seeping away and away. Someone like him.

Not only did they not need him, but they couldn't have him around. Not someone who lived like him, not someone who would make them live like him.

The only thing he could do was leave. It was easy, it was a quick way out. The best way out. He had to go without thinking twice, go before he could think twice or else nothing would go right. If you really think about it, what else could he have done?

He definitely couldn't have stayed in touch with them afterwards, he told himself. They would _notice_ and he would have to explain if they noticed, and he just couldn't explain, not to the woman he loved, not to his children. He did what he had to do, he told himself, but how could he forgive himself for it? He couldn't. After leaving them, he couldn't just live partially in their lives. That wasn't the way a family worked.

He should never have fallen in love with her. It only made everything more difficult. He never regretted loving her- all his regrets were because he loved her.

He had to leave and fix what he had made. It would be near impossible, but he knew he had to. And he knew he could never go back.

Sometimes when he was out in the middle of nowhere, not unlike that old town Resembool, it made him think of his short time with them. He remembered it, if he could manage. It seemed so far away, yet he could recall it perfectly. Like a curse.

The woods were cool and silent and still, the early spring late afternoon day was between sunset and morning, the light blue sky was hazy with unmoving, ribbon-like clouds that seemed to be almost transparent. They cast soft reflections over the water in the algae-speckled lake.

Almost like a sleepwalker, almost swiftly and yet flowingly, the back of a head rose slowly from the water, not so far away from him. The brown hair of a woman trained behind her as she seemed to float ahead to a rock in the water. Underneath her chin, her body just seemed to fade away.

The woman seemed not to even work as she lifted herself onto the rock. Like she was falling up, like she was being pulled by something. She was wearing, oddly, a dark purple dress that flowed down, down, down, covered her feet, and seemed to shine with wetness but not drip water. He figured that maybe she just hadn't felt like taking it off before swimming.

He stared at her for a long time, contemplating who she could be and what she was doing and why, before he called softly "is it cold in there?"

She halted for a second, her still but almost watery body freezing, hair trailing over her shoulder. Her face was not visible to him, and he could only guess the expression. He could only guess his own expression, since he could not see his own face, and it made him wonder what her face looked like.

When he looked into the water, would he see his reflection? Or just algae? Or one day would he just see no skin apart from what was rotted?

He wondered if his sons had his reflection. It was, he decided, best not to wonder. When you wonder, it makes you miss things you never had.

He knew he was awful, and it all hurt him, and he thought, what else was there to do? What could he have done?

Why don't you think about it. If you had been in his place, what would you have done? Would you have tried to make a better choice?

"No," she answered soft and clear like a bell, if you could feel her voice it would be like water, thick in stance and thin in noise. She moved her leg, just a little bit, as if the water was making her do it, and the pool of the earth's old, unforgotten tears circled around, rippled just a little bit, small ripples being pushed away. She answered as if she wouldn't notice the temperature one way or the other, like she barely cared about being asked the question. "Are you going swimming?"

He wasn't. He had never really liked swimming. Other things took up his time. And there were other things that should have been taking up his time, but really, there was nothing he could have done to change what had to be done. Or not much.

No, he told himself. Nothing.

He was close enough to the rock she was resting against that if he took just a few big steps, he could touch her. Her shining wet hair looked soft and familiar, just like Trisha's. But he couldn't think of her anymore.

"No." It was then, just after he paused long enough for all to go silent except for bubbling water and rustling branches and snakes hissing from somewhere and distant shouting, just after he thought about everything but what he wanted to think about, that she moved. Well, more like she descended airily down backwards into the lake, gently swished under like a gray dolphin rearing her back up, then sank under, then floated up.

Her head was tilted down for a moment. He was distantly curious about seeing her face, as if he thought it would be made of water, or maybe _she_ was inside this woman's body, or maybe he would just see the face of a passing swimmer. The face was still tilted down when she murmured "why not come in?" and stood up in the water, rising gradually, her hair pouring over her shoulders and pallid chest, chest covered in a purple-black dress bathed in pale sunlight drifting down from wherever the sun was. Gentle. She looked gentle but strange.

She looked just like Trisha.

Trisha's face, Trisha's but the hair was darker and thinner, and her eyes a deep, dull purple. Trisha's face stared back at his, vacantly smiling, inviting.

He gaped at her, like water rushing down a fall, flowing and not moving out of its own will and unrelenting. He knew it couldn't be, but he didn't know who it could be. He wanted to take one lasting look at her, do that, then turn around and leave and not look back.

He had a feeling that if he did, she wouldn't come after him.

After staring for he didn't know how long, he managed to exhale "You're _not_ Trisha," taking slow, spaced apart, staggering steps towards her. His boots ended up submerged in the rocky edge of the water. He noticed but did nothing.

She looked up, eyes searching for something that she wasn't sure what was but she knew where to find it, she almost seemed to waver, he body, though barely noticeably, quivered, and she seemed to be melting into water. She seemed not to notice.

She shook her head. "Trisha's not my name," she said, as if she was sad or confused. As if she didn't know her own name. She started to walk closer to him, they were not too far apart anyway.

He stared at her longer through his light-bathed eyeglasses as if they could have been there forever. If they could, he wondered, what would happen? "who are…_what_ are you?" he answers, knowing from his experiences that she could be anything, but something deep in a pit inside of him knows what she _must_ be, but not truly believing it. He knew she could also very well be just a woman who looked like a beautiful coincidence, but he knew what she must have been. He rather would not have known.

She looked back into his eyes, and a corner of her mouth turned up in a sort of miserable confusion, her eyes hazy with a sort of vague longing, as if she longed for something she wasn't sure of, but knew she could never have. She smiled kindly, but her eyes were sad, sad like they had been that way for a long time, but burned with a sort of savage directness, like she wanted something badly but knew it would be too hard bothering to find it. Almost hate. It would have been hate but it wasn't driven enough, didn't _want_ to be driven enough.

He knew because his eyes had looked the same, although he wouldn't think about it too much.

Her voice barely shook as she let her eyes wash through him, saying "of all the questions," shook her head slowly with no effort, and staring at him like she had just given up on something she had desperately wanted. She stared, almost in an empty way, until she turned around and swam, and twisted underwater.

He stared at her languidly wavering, half-there and half not, like someone who was still beautiful but entirely different. There was nothing else to do, he stared but did not talk or move or look away, and he barely even thought, he couldn't let himself think of

_(?we'llbringwilliamback,I'mbringingmyloverback,trisha'ssick,she'sdead,vanwe'llliveforever,philosopher'sstonewhatifyoucouldneverdie)_

those things. If he did, what would happen?

He didn't move, until something working inside of him made him turn around, walk away. But not forget.

He told himself there was nothing to be done, but he felt something missing as he walked away. He could have gone back, but he told himself it would be pointless.

He told himself that as long as he could remember them, remember them all, the longing didn't matter. He told himself that because it was the only choice he could deal with making. He knew who he was, but really, that was all.

Longing haunted his skin, dull and purple and cool, and he knew she wouldn't come after him. He wondered what would happen if she did. But she didn't, and he realized, or he thought, or maybe both, that it would be better with just him and memories.


	6. Envy

**And now, Alphonse and Envy. It made the most sense to me, Alphonse isn't/wouldn't be envious in the selfish, jealous way but in the sad, wishful way. If you were Alphonse, you would be thinking about people with bodies and how they use them…and how if you were in their place, what you would do. Alphonse's situation isn't *that* often deeply analyzed in the series, and I'm not going in incredibly deep, but you really wonder what he thinks about at night when he doesn't have the option to sleep.**

**I have a thing for Envy and Alphonse crying. No, Envy isn't crying in this, but somehow I like writing crying/sad Envy and Alphonse….**

**Set before Edward and Alphonse would even know who Envy was, and probably manga-universe…**

**Warnings: Surprisingly, none really…you'd think with Envy, there would be, but really nothing too bad, just the themes in it.**

**Pairings: I suppose you could see this as hurt/comforty Alphonse/Envy…**

Alphonse was waiting outside of a near-empty restaurant in some city he had stopped off in, waiting for his brother to finish up some business. Something. After a while, Alphonse, wouldn't admit, he had a hard time keeping track of all Edward did. Alphonse was waiting.

If waiting is keeping track of time inside of you, keeping track of how long you must keep going until what you want or don't want will happen, suspended in time and space by your free will, then Alphonse was in a constant state of it. Not that he would complain. He was in a place he could and would get out of, a place he had put himself in. He couldn't complain about it.

But something inside of him, in his soul, since that was the only place it could really be, _did_. Wrong. He wondered if it was in a certain part of his soul, floating around where the legs or hands should be, or swarming all over and in it.

Something _wanted_. Something wished. He wished he could be anyone else just so that he wouldn't have to feel the longing, feel the bitterness of tasting fate. Not hatred, he didn't feel like he was strong enough to hate, and he knew that if this want took over him so much, he couldn't really be that strong anyway. He felt all too much inside-not empty. Probably making up for not feeling anything from the outside. Too full.

He knew he was terrible for thinking like that. But some sick, gray, railing part of him couldn't help it.

_I would be better off as my body on the other side. Even he-it? Doesn't have to feel. _ He hated himself sometimes for being so selfish. The world wasn't about him, he had already been shown that he was insignificant in the grand scheme of life. He had to remember.

He was glad sometimes he couldn't cry. But he still wanted to. He felt that if he couldn't get rid of some physical way of his feelings, if they could be called that, they would be lost. Some things did. He knew that after being awake all the time, it sharpened what senses he had left. For every child out with his parents on a nice day- Alphonse could never tear his glances away from that, he wouldn't say he loved looking though, it was like eating more and more cake after feeling full to the point of sickness- there was a shadowy figure in the night that anyone could see if they looked, but only Alphonse seemed to see with his sense. Lucky, he knew.

And it seemed like one of those shadowy figures was there. Alphonse noticed a small, long-haired person staring at him with eyes narrowed in examination, and a slightly opened mouth.

"How long have you been watching?" asked Alphonse, startled. This…boy….he thought, at least, this person was a boy, was looking at him as if in some sort of trance. As if there was something to look at. Alphonse did not like it at all.

But he didn't want to let any of it on. He was always the more emotional one, he knew. It could get him in a lot of trouble sometimes. He wasn't a hateful person. But deep down a little _spiteful_ when he knew he _shouldn't_ have been. His brother was never that way. He knew he must have annoyed him sometimes…even through his faults, his brother was never overemotional the way he was. And not the way he was inside.

If Alphonse had been in the place Edward was in, he knew he'd be doing a lot more crying than Edward ever would.

The boy-it was a boy-sharply inhaled, as if getting caught doing something bad, and jolted. But then he grinned, although a bit unsteadily. Alphonse's remaining senses had been sharpened, although the knowledge that came with it sometimes made him nervous. The boy grinned, replying, "Oh, I don't know, not too long. Cold night, isn't it?"

It looked like a cold night. It was, after all, the winter time. Alphonse never really liked winter too much. All the white masses of snow getting rid of dividing lines scared him, but he wouldn't admit it.

It was a winter night, and the boy seemed to be only a little cold, even though he was wearing only a tank top, and a skirtlike thing, and no shoes. He was shivering a little, but didn't seem to be truly aware. He rubbed his arms with the palms of his hands. Alphonse wondered if that kept him warm, and he couldn't help but wonder if the cold felt nice and refreshing, like swimming in cool water, or frigid like knives.

He wouldn't, at that moment, have minded either.

His hands were graceful and capable. At least, they looked that way. There was a lot that could be said about how things looked.

"I guess," Alphonse murmured, casting his gaze downward, where the hardened, powdery dirt road had frost forming on it. Alphonse noticed the boy's stark white toes wiggling around the frost, like they were beings of their own having fun. The boy didn't seem to notice them. _Why do you think that? _Alphonse thought, sickened. But he couldn't help thinking that if he had those feet, he would notice them. What thoughts.

The boy stared at him, eyes narrowed in confusion. "You're enjoying it? This is the coldest day there's been all winter."

Alphonse thought, _I wouldn't know!_ And twisted to look at the boy. He didn't really seem to be dressed for the coldest day at all. But Alphonse decided that if he could feel a cold winter night, he'd want to go running through it as if his life depended on it, he didn't blame this boy at all…

"Oh."

The boy moved closer, trying to be subtle about it but not quite succeeding, looking at Alphonse like he was examining something tiny and intricate. "So what brings you here anyway?" He dragged a small log from a heap of discarded firewood from the side of the road, and sat on it, looking at Alphonse like he knew him.

Alphonse froze for a second _don't be stupid! There's nothing dangerous! _Then waved away his thoughts and sat down. His form, even while sitting down, was taller than the boy. "I'm just waiting for my brother. We're always together. But sometimes he does things I can't get in with." He noticed that this boy was not only listening intently, but his eyes were hungry to hear more, but his face was distant and sad, even though his eyes were _right there_, looking almost _into_ Alphonse, like they wanted to claw through the armor and find something special. Still, his face was unhappy, and his lips parted like he was imagining something nice. But just as it seemed Alphonse noticed, he paused on a fake-looking grin that didn't quite reach his hollow, hungry eyes that called for something not there.

After losing his taste, smell, and touch, Alphonse's remaining senses were strengthened, but he wasn't sure if he could attribute this knowledge to that. Not that he was ungrateful for his heightened vision and hearing.

This boy's face had seen a lot, Alphonse could tell, but he didn't know more than that. He knew the scope of things written on his face, and Alphonse _stupidly _wished he could have somewhere to put all he had seen, somewhere tangible, somewhere that wouldn't take him from the inside out.

"A brother…you're really close with each other?" the boy asked as if he knew the answer but was just checking to be sure. Alphonse nodded. "Do…you wait a lot?" he asked, getting quieter. Alphonse noticed him gripping log's edge so tightly his knuckles were white, looking like he was anticipating something. Alphonse wanted to know how that _felt_- no, he didn't, he _didn't_, he _couldn't. _Alphonse was Alphonse.

"We are. I don't wait…too much," he said. Not too much. Brother never had to really wait, Brother never was really alone. Brother never watched anybody while they slept, thinking about what they knew was his fault, knowing he could be thinking about it not for hours but the rest of his life, knowing he didn't know anything about how long that could be- _no._ He wouldn't think like that.

"Do you ever get afraid you'll be all alone?" the boy smiled wryly, and at first glance the smile could be seen as a teasing grin, but it wasn't even a real smile and Alphonse could tell.

He didn't, no, he couldn't, it was terrible to. But it was true.

He did.

This boy was all alone. He didn't seem to mind.

Without thinking, Alphonse whispered "yes," knowing how awful he was, knowing how sad it would make his brother, knowing the odds of his own survival. This boy looked like he could survive; Alphonse gasped, and was glad he had no body, because he knew he would be crying if he did.

"Don't. Your brother loves you, he must, and if he's around you won't be alone," his voice was bitter and sharp, but Alphonse could tell that there was some attempt at gentleness in there. He saw this boy looking at him, with eyes so hungry they would eat anything if it would fill him, crazed and desperate and sad.

Alphonse stared in awe. "You say it like you're all alone," he thought would be a nice thing to say, but the second he did, he could tell something was wrong. He was right, he thought, but something didn't seem believable.

The boy's face stayed still for a moment as if he had been slapped, then his mouth popped open, and immediately closed, grinding his teeth as if it could gain him composure. Not looking Alphonse in the eye, he said, "_You're_ not."

The boy got up off the log. "Have you ever been allowed to be able to be anyone you could ever want to, but not anything?"

This was lost on Alphonse. Right over his head. He had the feeling this boy _felt_ lonely, but this statement made him seem like he was fine. _Anyone._ That sounded like a careless, free life, even though he didn't seem like it.

_Not anything._

"If it makes you feel better," Alphonse said gently, something telling him not to touch the boy but still he moved closer, "I wouldn't feel too bad. In fact," he said, and the boy's face drained of color, his eyes widening as if he knew what Alphonse was going to say but would do anything not to hear it. A nervous half-giggle escaped his throat.

"I envy-" _you._ To cut off Alphonse, or at least to try to, or so it seemed, the boy shook his head violently, his strands of hair wiggling. His eyes looked pained and angry to Alphonse.

"I'm sorry," caught in Alphonse's throat, but all either of them could hear was what he had just said.

The boy looked up at Alphonse, serious, eyes not narrowed in anger but squinted from being upset. He gulped and dug his fingers into his knee. "No," he said quietly, and with not one trace of hope, letting _something_ on that Alphonse didn't quite understand. "You don't," he said, and Alphonse knew it was true the way the boy glared in what tried to be hatred but came out as empty, cold starvation for something Alphonse knew he had himself, and how he walked away from Alphonse quickly, and almost seemed to disappear.

And Alphonse knew he was absolutely awful, but a part of him still wished. A part of him still wanted. A part of him was still hungry.


	7. Pride

**LASTLY, (can't believe I actually finished this. Lol) it's Pride (from the manga…crossover time!) and Dante. I think Pride from the manga does a much better job of representing pride than Pride from the anime, but I think Bradleypride does it well too…and Dante just seemed like she'd be the best option for it. I mean, I see a lot of Pride!Edward but I already used him, and I also don't think he's that proud, especially compared to someone like Dante. Because Dante is seriously, just…she's so Pride.  
After doing this story, it seems like a journey. LOL. My favorite to write was Wrath and Envy, and my most disturbing in my opinion are Sloth and Greed. **

**I look at the choices and I think of how it could have turned out differently. I mean, I was *this* close to having Winry as one of them. Can you guess which? **

**Pairings: None. Unless you want to see some creeeeepy DantexHomunculi. **

**Warnings: Creepiness.**

Dante loved a lot of things. She loved the night and what it let her do, beautiful dresses and how they framed her young body, her abilities and what she used them for, wine and how it felt in her mouth. She even loved humans. Not too much. But she loved them enough to protect them all.

Long ago, she considered herself one of them.

But that was in the past, and she knew she wasn't, never would be, hadn't for a long time, and possibly never even was a true human. When she heard people-humans- speak of "humanity", as if goodness was exclusive to humans. As if they knew goodness. She knew they were near hopeless. Something like goodness could have been a human specialty, but so were stupidity, foolishness, and incompetence. 

She was one of a kind- not a human she had been, not a creature she had made. She would protect and reign over them all.

Well, who else do you think would?

And who else do you think would be able to?

She had power, enough for worlds. Enough for her, she supposed. After all, she deserved it. If she could master the universe and its workings the way she had, she figured she not only deserved her position over it, then it was a given she would have it in the first place.

I wonder if I had that power, would I think the same way?

Her manor was immense and daunting and ornate and masterfully armed by her creations, like a palace of a goddess. But she was no goddess, goddesses and their minds were crafted by higher powers in the ways of the truth. She had become what she was on her own account.

Really, it would be more accurate to say something higher than a goddess. She reigned over earth and space from the earth, she was Dante, and if that didn't mean something to someone, they had no hope of understanding.

But then again, few people understood when it came to those ways. It did take a lot to understand-but most people wouldn't have that capacity. Most people were not willing to risk or do big things or crack a few necks for the greater good. Most people were just followers of human nature. Most people were not her.

In her manor, she spent some nights alone all to herself, all she truly needed, plotting and drinking gorgeous wines and letting the moonlight spill over her body through the window and being content with how it all played out, as if it was just for her.

That night, she rested on her chaise, musing on how she would run things after getting the Stone, after winning it all. It would really be easy. After all, it was her and her creations against human children. True, in a way her creations were like children themselves. But two weak human children with amateur ability and foolish hope against her? Useless to even fight.

Oh, humans. If they just realized what exactly they were, it would all be so much less difficult.

Dante had long since stopped being surprised that it would take someone like her to realize that.

Her chaise was drenched entirely in moonlight, almost ethereal. A small, wavy shadow flickered over her illuminated hand but she saw nothing move. Where the shadow flickered, she felt a strange, numbing sensation. A corner of her mouth rose. Probably wasn't one of the lovely effects of too much wine. And probably not one of her creations' little tricks.

"Dante."

A voice that was near enough for her to feel it, yet felt as if it came from another world. Almost like hers.

But she didn't know whose voice this was, or why this-at least she was assuming-person was here. Dante knew full well that assumptions could be wrong, but more importantly, she knew full well that hers rarely were. And her assumption was that this voice was from something she didn't know about.

She kept her hands close together. At the ready. In those centuries, unspeakable things you and I couldn't even begin to imagine had lain within those walls. Some of them had not been beings or things she would have welcomed. But since she had not welcomed them, she took it upon herself to ensure that they would not stay around.

"You're not one of mine." An almost accusation, with the right strategy, she could prove that statement false. But after all these years she knew- all in due time. And after all these years, she knew that time was just another one of her powerful, changeable, tools, begging to be manipulated.

Sometimes, she got bored with always knowing how to twist and turn things her way. But the good kind of boredom- a kind of necessary, honorable ritual. She loved what she could do, and knew exactly what she was capable of. Sure, she had to do some things that were less than desirable along the way. But was it so wrong? After all she had done, was it that impractical?

Of course not. Not a moment went by where she did not know what her truth was, and all the truth all around her, rippling out around all that there was and setting it right.

"There is someone I work for, someone who is not you," said the voice, serenely arrogant, an ancient soul dressing up as the young. "But other than that," and she heard small, light footsteps, "I am not one of anybody's."

She rose, smiling victoriously, and walked towards where she heard his voice come from. The moonlight seeped through the windows to taste her. "Then tell me about you," she said as if coaxing, ready to sit down and chat over tea, but only in tone- she knew it was a command. And if she knew, then he would too, if it all played out the right way.

It always did.

"You could say a lot about me. You could say I'm one of a kind. I am. But you could also say we have a lot in common." She saw before her a boy's body, Pride's son, but she knew it wasn't, it was someone, something completely else. A boy's body, no more than seven years old. She knew what they had in common physically- sweet, fresh faced , dressed up youth covering what it would be near impossible for you or me to truly comprehend. He stood in the center of the room, underneath the wide skylight. He was flanked by shadows that coiled around the rust-silver rays of light drenching the room, drenching her with grandeur.

Like him, she was one of a kind.

"Well, I may not know who you are," she raised her voice, clear and powerful, ringing out like it could silence the entire world if that was what it would come to, "but I know exactly what you mean."

"I know," he said. "You know what I mean as much as I do. You share some characteristics with me, human." She cocked her head and frowned.

"You call me 'human'?" she said. "Your kind, your flaw is that you complicate things by seeing them as simpler as they really are." Like Lust, who thought she could have all the happiness in the world if she just found the Stone, or Greed, who thought that he could have everything including an escape from what he was, or Envy, who thought that if he could make himself believe something it would be true.

They should have been grateful they had her, she thought.

"Well, I suppose saying you are human and stopping there would not be correct. But neither would you be, in assuming I am like the rest of my kind." He walked closer, but the physical body's movements made no difference to her one way or the other, it was only the increasing intensity of his small eyes, and the thickening of shadows surrounding him, her. Wide, long eyes swarmed inside, then curled around her.

She had seen more impressive, but it was an especially unearthly experience, she would admit.

"We're in a class of out own." Matter of factly and instructively; she said this, because she knew it to be a fact, like she knew all she said to be.

"Seeing things as too intricate can be problematic as well. That is a great flaw of humankind," he said in a calculatedly wistful tone that carried no regret at all, a sort of disappointment that his position in relation to that of humans' was so easily achieved.

She held no regret for humans' weakness.

"Yes," she said, hating the humans for not understanding, not realizing what she knew- for a moment, even thinking William, if alive, would have more sense than them-

"They don't see," she concluded.

For a moment the shadows completely swallowed her, and for a moment, she considered using her power to show him why he wouldn't want to do that, and she saw nothing but the slowly twisting eyes and small, ancient child's pair, and nothing but truth.

"One who cannot see truth cannot understand it," he said as if understanding a different truth than she did. She dismissed it.

"Tell me who you are," she said, needing to know who had made him.

He drew back his shoulders, just the child's body, and the face of someone old as she was, walking away and smiling, arrogant and serene.

"But Dante, to the best you can, you already do," the child's voice said, and he walked, and it was only her and her thoughts.

To the best you can? As if there was better that could be done, and there wasn't. You already know, as if there was something unspoken between them.

She didn't think she was complicating or simplifying it beyond necessary when she thought that she knew exactly who he was.

And she knew the truth.

In the shadows of what you and I will never know, she knew, but what she knows exactly, nobody will be the wiser.

Here in your shadows, I meld myself to you, and in my shadows you meld yourself into me. Because we are humans, and it is what we do.

These seven emotions, sensations, feelings, ways, truths- that which fills us, that which opens up possibilities, which takes us to where we cannot take ourselves out of once we enter, which is a part of us forever once it has enters, which gives us unrest as we search for more and more of it, which will be what we have when we have nothing else, which is our truth, is ours. Our way. They mix with us, we mix with them, until we are one.

They are our undoing ,and ultimately, in due time, they are our makers.


End file.
